Run, Barry, Run
by TigerLily957
Summary: He's a two-time runaway groom with a knack for speed. If reporter West can catch him, she'll hunt down this breaking story.
1. Something New

_This was inspired by the movie "Runaway Bride" with a twist of The Flash/Westallen._

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own The Flash nor The Runaway Bride

* * *

"Hey, kid, where are you going? The music's about to start!"

" _Barry!_ "

"Is he making a run for it?"

He pushed his way through the congregation, finding a safe escape outside. A single drop of rain streaked his cheek; it slowly snaked its way toward Barry's quivering lips. He gently smudged the spot away with his fingertips, where it hesitated to drip down, and heaved a sigh.

He was sure that it should have been today.

An exact year after he had proposed, and yet, he could only think of how their marriage would turn out if he walked back into that church and signed away their lives. Barry remembered how he first held Patty Spivot's hand when the morning sun spilled over and a faint glow of the diamond ring slid over her finger. Her face, deeply flushed and intensely focused on the engagement ring she had anticipated for months.

And his face? Currently pelted with raindrops as drenched, matted hair clung onto his wet scalp. He glanced up at a mass of dark clouds stirring above him, bringing forth an entire afternoon of heavy rain minutes before his impending nuptials. The ground was slathered with grotesque, muddy sludge every time he stomped his dress shoes through deep puddles. It swallowed his feet with bitter dampness and the mud splattered onto the ends of his pant legs. Cool droplets enveloped Barry while he ran, gliding down his nose and chin. A sudden clap of thunder, he slipped out onto the wet pavement and quickly rounded the corner.

"Barry, come back!"

He grew farther away from the church until all that was reminiscent was the faint ringing of church bells. Barry had to keep running and the current weather condition certainly didn't prevent the cold air from stinging his throat as he inhaled deeper, faster. Tiny, yellow bolts clung onto his exposed skin, crackling with each lunge forward.

He loved Patty, he truly did. But it would be selfish to expect her to be okay with _all_ of it. She wouldn't understand and maybe she would hate him. But he'd rather she hate him than—

It was complicated.

The small lightning bolts sent a searing pain shooting from the ankle to his knee and up his thigh. His breath huffed in small, frantic spurts. Perhaps excessive speed wasn't in his best interest at the moment, but he had to use all of his willpower before they caught up to him.

Ironic, as if they could really catch him.

"Come on, Barry, come on," he wheezed, throwing himself forward with long strides. His heart began to beat rapidly as he sprinted; panic set in and finally reached the man's exhausted limbs. He collapsed onto the park's nearest bench, wiping the sweat glistening from his forehead.

Barry's chest heaved up and down. He slowly slumped over, frail body dropping onto the damp concrete. The steady rain that fell from the clouds broke up, allowing a flood of warm sunlight to pass through.

She furrowed her brow as the priest entered the hallway, a few seconds short of when she was expected to walk down the aisle. Patty dropped the bouquet from her hands at the sight of her absent fiancé and empty altar.

"I'm so sorry, Patricia," he whispered. "But the groom left."

* * *

Her eyes flit between the first and second door, both of them humming as they carried their loads down. She hoped, in some freak twist of fate, they'd get lodged between the second floor and she'd have no choice but to prolong her trip to editor Larkin's office by five minutes. But this was just wishful thinking.

 _Floor three,_

 _Floor two,_

 _Floor one,_

 _Lobby._

She straightened up once the first door produced a small beep. She stared down the rectangular entrance illuminated by slivers of light from doors that slid open and shut, as other elevators arrived at various floors. A slight breeze had made its way to the lobby, blowing her hair behind her shoulders. Iris took a deep breath and slowly entered the elevator.

"This is fine," she whispered, teeth chattering as she paced the elevator. "No biggie. No, well—yes. It's a biggie."

The elevator had steel walls, a black carpet, a sensor, and six buttons. Iris pressed her employee badge against the small, glass panel and allowed a red sensor to verify the barcode. It turned a bright green, activating the elevator to rise to the fifth floor without interruption. No amateur ever used the elevators, opting for the stairwell to retreat from the vulturous glares given by veteran reporters. She paced back and forth, heels stabbing out a thin trail in the carpet. She briefly glanced down at her legs and thumped her knuckles against her forehead.

"Large hole in my stockings. Perfect, Iris."

She weaved her fingers between one another and eventually settled on picking at her hangnails. The elevator opened directly into the editor-in-chief's office. It was a drearily gray room, occupying a large corner of the building. It gave views of her past and possible future: CC Jitters and the newly constructed field and investigative division—a subsidiary building of Central City Picture News just a few blocks north.

The glass surface of his desk inhabited semi-organized clutter: a clunky computer, scattered pins plucked from the tin can, crumpled papers, black leather notebooks, and a framed photograph of his wife.

"Um, you wanted to see me?"

"Iris, welcome." Eric Larkin peered at her from the top of his glasses and quickly motioned for her to sit; he pulled out a piece of paper in preparation to read.

"To be fair, the notion of death in this gruesome society isn't exactly new. In Ancient Greece, this fearsome female was known as Erinyes, a devouring death goddess. The simple personification of death, raising hellfire to all in its path."

She swallowed.

"... And in Central City, where Dr. Harrison Wells manages the S.T.A.R Labs facility, his creation of the failed particle accelerator may also equate him to that personification of death himself—"

He turned the page.

"Last year's explosion of the particle accelerator has already disemboweled Central City, leaving concerned citizens to pick up the pieces. His ritual feast continues as Dr. Wells prepares to make a sacrifice out of the already-broken city. So all bets are on that his latest boomerang project isn't honeymooning with Las Vegas odds makers as many predict that this will devastate the struggling Central City before the cut ribbon hits the ground. And lo, the emergence of The Flash (formerly known as The Red Streak), has reignited that spark the city longs for: hope. The Flash has recently— ..I can't read this anymore."

Larkin removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. "Iris, tell me why would one print a piece of fiction and call it fact? This wasn't your assignment. You were told to stick to the fluff pieces for our entertainment column."

"Exposing the dangerous methods behind Harrison Wells's various projects or how The Flash has brought hope to Central City are hardly fictitious. I know it wasn't my assignment but with all due respect, sir, I don't belong in the entertainment column. Investigative reporting and exposés are my thing. The Flash—"

"The Flash, the Flash. Listen," Larkin sighed. "Iris, when I brought you on board—it's because I genuinely enjoyed your blog. But this? This is not a blog. CCPN can't publish this without verified sources."

He slid the article across the desk. "Journalism lesson number one: If you don't verify your sources, you don't get published. Lesson number two: you don't follow your assignments, you don't get published. There's a list of factual misrepresentations in your article. Fifteen, in fact." Larkin sank heavily in his chair and swiveled around. Under the dull glow of strip lighting, Eric Larkin appeared oddly pale. Today, he was secretly nursing a killer migraine and his stomach constantly turned. This was definitely the last conversation he intended to have with his valued novice journalist. "And besides, you're in the big leagues, kid. We don't need Flash-praise pieces anymore. If I'm being honest—I've seen enough of those from you. I need something new, not Flash or S.T.A.R Labs conspiracy theories."

"I'm a journalist. This is what journalists are supposed to do. This is the kind of material that needs to be published. We push, we stretch, we go out on a limb," she paused. "Writing about The Flash gives me hope. It gives everyone hope. It's what makes me good at what I do."

"No, reporting the same hero saves the day and gives us hope—that storyline—that's what makes you unemployed. It's a cut throat business and I have to run it effectively." Larkin tapped his finger across the top of his desk. "I believe in your potential, Iris. But you're still testing out the water and I can't risk a novice reporter on the front page yet."

"Sir—"

He held up a hand. "Stick to your column assignment. Bring me an entertainment piece and I might reconsider your future work. And one more thing."

"Yes?"

"Bring me something good."


	2. Coffee and Lightning

**Author's Note** : _I've gotten a lot of positive PMs and reviews about this story so far. Thank you! This is my first Flash piece and I enjoy the show so much, I hope I do it justice. I also wanted to address some questions. Firstly, Editor-in-Chief Eric Larkin is an actual character at CCPN in the show. Tracy* is also a character from the show as a barista at CC Jitters. I haven't decided on including other characters and plots yet. Secondly, yes, Season 1 is where this story is taking place though I tweaked a few minor details from later seasons to appropriately incorporate them into the story. Hope that clears up any confusion._

* * *

"Mr. Larkin, good morning. Iris West, here. Anyways, when you get a chance, please call me back. I actually have some really good column ideas I want to bounce off you."

Over the years, Central City prided itself on its aesthetically intricate skyscrapers and frequently maintained streets. It was picture perfect: rectilinear, sufficient amount of foliage, repetitive, and particularly clean. Yet the morning traffic was horrendous and its citizens refused to drive properly. She figured that, perhaps to the several cars that sped by, she must have appeared invisible to them. It wasn't until the blue sedan nearly clipped her that Iris desperately wanted to walk back inside her apartment complex and call it a day. Nevertheless, the morning had just begun. As the remnants of evening melted away, she simply couldn't risk losing daylight.

Today, Iris was on a mission.

"I'm still in the drafting process so it's nothing major, really. I just thought maybe it would help if I could run a few ideas past you." She closed her eyes for a brief moment and sighed. "I hope that after this column, my first article could possibly be revisited one day. Anyways, I could really use someone to toss some ideas back and forth with. You're probably too busy to spare an hour and twenty-seven minutes—"

 _Beep_.

She looked down at her cell phone screen and huffed, "Shoot."

Iris dialed his number and quickly pressed the phone against her ear. "Hello? Mr. Larkin, I believe my call was disconnected. So, for my first idea, I was thinking of doing an article on—um—"

Her eyes frantically swiveled from left to right, searching for anything remotely interesting in her line of sight. Iris squinted at a woman exiting a car in the distance. "Um, on—on _limousines_! I could do a basic survey on many people in Central City, who aren't apart of the elitist percentage, had an opportunity to ride in a limo?"

She frowned. "But that'd require a lot of surveying and—uh, you know. Scratch that."

Under a shimmer of sunlight above, there was not a cloud in sight. The cityscape spread in front of her, gray buildings rose from the spaces and wide gaps of green treetops. She sandwiched the cell phone between her right ear and shoulder, idly flipping through her notebook that was retrieved from her satchel. "The line hasn't cut so I—I think I'm still getting your voicemail. Okay. Listen, I'm also thinking of writing about those informercials that are always on channel 28. Maybe I could do a piece about how many viewers are actually tuning into these—"

" _Hey, watch where you're going!_ "

"Sorry!" Iris quickly scurried through the crosswalk. Her nose was stuffed into the book, yet she remained uncaring to the traffic that maneuvered and honked around her. "It's kind of hard to talk here, there's too much background noise."

The few blocks leading up to CC Jitters barely had enough street space for the onslaught of morning traffic and busied pedestrians. She moved along, walking unusually slow at a sedate pace. Rows of towering steel skyscrapers stretched above her, smoke slightly billowed from the subway grate and a mixture of white smog coated the whole area. Iris turned the corner, headed down a tree-lined avenue that consisted of narrow, brick buildings and small patches of lawn that stretched backwards.

"What do you think? At first I thought maybe this was a good idea, right? But now that I'm really thinking about it—it's a bit boring. It—"

Iris stopped, her right hand that carried the cell phone dropped to her side. The path ahead was blocked off with construction detour signage and the low rumble of large excavators trudging across the street. She groaned and slowly turned around, opting for the detour path.

"It sucks."

Reminiscing on her college days, she could have taken European folklore to cover her Sociology requirement. But no, instead she attempted her hand at journalism. As it appeared on the surface, reporters had all the fun.

"Newsflash, Iris?" she grumbled under her breath. "Reporters have _none_ of the fun."

* * *

"Run, Barry. I need you to run."

The speed lab's viewing room consisted of one window, though it was currently too high for his taste. Dr. Wells positioned his wheelchair upon the steel ramp, half-heartedly peering out of the window. It had four rectangular panes of thick, leaded glass; the first two windows had been previously warped and cracked from failed tests.

He could feel the cuffs of his white dress shirt digging into his wrists. From the high window beamed sudden flashes of red and yellow light, illuminating the dust and debris that idly swirled in the air. His fingernails stabbed into his thigh, enough pressure in the right spot and he would draw blood—or possibly break his pinky finger.

"Mr. Ramon, I need an update." He pushed away and eased down the ramp, quickly making his way to the computer terminals. "How fast is he going?"

"Well, it appears he's clocking in 150—" Cisco quirked an eyebrow. "Uh, I stand corrected. No. He just reached 200 knots per hour."

She shook her head. "That's not possible."

"Ah, my friend, that's where you're wrong. 'Tis _definitely_ possible." Cisco wagged a finger, motioning for Caitlin to come closer to the computer monitor. She peeked over his shoulder, eyes slowly widening. "We're now clocking 225."

Dr. Wells inched toward the computer, analyzing the data before him. He used to stand an inch or two short of six feet, but nowadays, he had slumped over in his chair to disregard any notion that he once had height. A brilliant mind Dr. Wells was, albeit his knowledge had occasionally expressed itself in the most complex theories and experiments in the world of applied science.

This included the experiment he was currently conducting in the speed lab.

"Dr. Wells, we have to get Barry to slow down. God knows what's going on inside his body," Caitlin reasoned.

"We're all well aware that his cells are in a constant state of flux. Am I missing something?"

"Yes, with this excessive amount of speed in such a short period of time, he could risk experiencing cardiopulmonary failure or a transient ischemic attack."

"If anything, a mini stroke," he corrected. "But that's not likely."

"Dr. Wells, assuming from his form, he seems distracted. We can't—"

"Turn on the intercom." Harrison gently massaged his temple and sighed before he spoke into microphone. "Mr. Allen, while I am extremely eager to determine your full range of abilities, I do caution restraint."

"Guys, he just passed 304 knots."

His pale, slender fingers instantly curled into tight, sweaty fists. Barry swung his hands forward, anticipating that the motion would make him run faster. Thin trails of sweat dripped from his forehead and drenched his sloppy, matted hair. His heart beat rapidly as he sprinted forward, causing a slight tremor in his muscles. A large bolt of yellow struck the ground followed by the sound of low crackles. His red boots squelched with each heavy footfall and perspiration wet through the breastplate of his suit. Another flash of yellow whipped his side, slowly burning into his skin.

"I don't believe it," Cisco whispered. "Do you think he can make it to Mach?"

From his peripheral view, he observed a bright object, something sharp and long tried to lash out at him. His breaths were short and frantic; eyes welled with tears from the excruciating pain he felt as he forced his legs to push harder. The ground blurred beneath his feet and the steady vibration of footsteps echoed into his ears. He felt beads of sweat roll down his chin, but could not garner enough energy to wipe it away.

Barry weaved to the right to jump out of the bolt's way, but the delayed movement was too late. His foot slipped the pavement, forcing his head to bob backwards. Barry snatched fistfuls of air, desperately attempting to keep his balance as he tumbled over. His scream gave way and he collapsed to the ground. He lay, body violently convulsing, whilst small bolts of lightning surged around his befallen frame.

He could hear the whizzing sound of wheels and heavy steps pounding the asphalt as they approached him, but his vision was too blurred to decipher who reached him first. He felt several fingers wrap around his arms as they hoisted him upward.

"Barry, can you hear me? His pupils are dilated. Barry, can you hear me?" Caitlin flickered a small light in his eyes, moving it from left to right. The dazed speedster's eyes slowly rolled to the back of his head as his body began to tremor once more. Caitlin shook her head.

"His vitals are weak."

Barry's head shot up, taking in frantic breaths. "I—I can't breathe! My body is burning! I—I can't—"

"Mr. Allen?" Dr. Wells gently shook the young man's right shoulder. "Barry, you've got to listen to me."

"I—I can't breathe. I can't _breathe_!"

"We need to stabilize him," Caitlin murmured. "He'll go into shock."

"I'm on it."

"No, Cisco, don't." Harrison held up a hand, studying Barry's blanched face. "You can't just give him any anesthetic in his current condition. His metabolism will burn right through it. Barry, you need to listen to me right now. You need to breathe. Inhale, exhale. Simply breathe, Mr. Allen. Just breathe."

"Come on, we need to bring him to the bed," Cisco instructed. "Let's get him out this suit. Pretty sure all the wires are frayed."

Barry's breath gave a few short, gasps before he let it go, feeling the heavy tension and pressure drain from his body. He inhaled, letting his chest gradually deflate as he exhaled. It took several minutes before his breathing returned to normal and his sickly face flushed with color.

The laboratory's examine room corridor felt stuffy as the air was perfumed with undertones of bleach and ammonia. Above the steel doors were two large, black plastic signs with the S.T.A.R Labs logo. The concrete floor complimented the white, square grids patterned along the polystyrene ceiling. Barry lay in a curtained cubicle, fiddling warily with his fingers. He examined the ceiling, as there was nothing intriguing to look at, and began to count each tile.

His current count was 102.

Cisco scratched his head for a brief moment before snapping his fingers. "I got it! Dizzy spells?"

She rolled her eyes. "He would tell us if he experienced any dizzy spells. We're the doctors, remember?"

"Would you tell us if you had dizzy spells, Barry?" Cisco shouted from behind the curtain.

"Uh, sure."

"Huh, he'd tell us."

"Heart rate, blood pressure, nerve conduction," Caitlin hypothesized. She made a check mark on her paper. "All normal."

Cisco swiped to the right on his tablet. "Brainwave function within standard limits."

Caitlin squinted her eyes at the data before they gradually widened. "Cisco, look at these glucose levels."

"Oh, my God." He gently smacked the tablet against his forehead. "It was so obvious. Right there in front of us."

"Right?"

The silence in S.T.A.R Labs equated to the quiet and coldness of the city morgue. Even the loudest buzzing machines remained eerily silent. The two quickly paced around his bed, checking off symptoms with their clipboards and tablets. Cisco lifted his head from the screen and approached Barry's bed. Barry pushed up the falling hospital gown from slipping over his shoulder. He propped up on both elbows.

"How's it looking?"

"So I did some readings. It seems like the sensors in your suit were kicking back some weird telemetry, kind of like your vitals instantly spiked and then dropped for a few seconds. Everything looks normal now," Cisco explained.

"Although, you did have a slight metabolic failure brought on by acute hypoglycemia," Caitlin vocalized. "Which explains the convulsions."

"You feeling okay? Need to eat? Want a cronut?" Cisco held up the small pastry. "I got them from Jitters. It's a croissant but a donut and so, so, so very good."

"No, actually, I think I've had way too many of those this week," Barry chuckled, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. "But I guess I'm not eating enough, right?"

"Exactly," Cisco garbled in between his bites of food. "We're gonna create a new diet based on your metabolic changes. Caitlin's done a few calculations."

"Really, guys, I've never felt better."

"Yes, as of right now," Caitlin added. She gave a side glance to Cisco. "You would've let the trial go to Mach 1?"

"Hey, hey! He told me to make the course hard," he defended, pointing at Harrison. "Pretty sure I didn't know it would have gone this far. This was supposed to be a training exercise to improve Barry's speed."

"Overall, I'd say it was very impressive, Mr. Allen," Dr. Wells navigated his way through the lab. "Your reaction to stimuli at super-speed continues to improve and if you keep working like you are, you will be ready for the next time the Reverse-Flash comes around."

Barry shrugged his shoulders. "Sure, but let's say he makes an appearance a lot sooner, it's still not enough."

"It will be. For now, we all have worked diligently to map the dispersions of antimatter, x-elements, and even dark matter throughout Central City."

"Right," Cisco added. "Though we have no way of knowing exactly what or—who—was exposed; given our successes so far, we will capture more meta-humans. The Reverse-Flash included. AKA..we're on the right track to getting you up to speed. Literally."

"For now, we get back to work. Mr. Allen, I strongly encourage you to rest."

"Thanks."

Harrison nodded, slowly backing away from the bed and toward the door. Once Dr. Wells was out of sight, Caitlin and Cisco wheeled over a crash cart. She handed Cisco a pair of latex gloves before retrieving her own pair. Barry slowly drew his knees to his chest. "Uh, do I even want to know what's going on here?"

"I wanted to run some more tests. Can you lay on your side?"

He complied with Caitlin's request, slightly flinching due to his sore body. She retrieved a syringe, its long hypodermic needle glimmering under the lights. Caitlin examined his back and wrinkled her nose. "Does this hurt?"

She pressed her index finger on his inflamed skin from the lower, left back. A sharp pain shot up his spine and he bit his bottom lip to prevent from screaming out.

"Yes! It hurts!"

"I thought so. I'm going to inject a small dosage of an anti-inflammatory steroid into your injured muscle."

"That's not necessary. Just give me some time, it'll heal on its own."

"Yes, but in the meantime, you can barely move. This'll ease some of your pain and speed up the process."

"Hey." Cisco held down Barry's side, leaning over him to get a good look at his face. "Try not to move, okay? It's just a tiny pinch."

"Helpful."

"I know."

"You should know that in the world of science, we share information. We don't keep secrets." Barry focused on the wall, centering his attention away from the task at hand. She slowly plunged the needle into his sore spot, Barry squeezed his eyes shut. Caitlin removed the syringe and motioned for Cisco to quickly release him. "All done."

Barry rolled to his side, allowing them to assist him up. He rubbed his lower back, shooting her a confused look. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

"Caitlin," he repeated. "What do you mean?"

"You're distracted."

"We all have our off days."

"I suppose." Caitlin turned her back so that she could busy herself with the crash cart. "I, too, was distracted when I first lost Ronnie."

"Our circumstances are very different."

"Hypothetically, yes. But if you continue to lose focus, it'll do more than harm than good on the field."

"I'm doing just fine. I can do this," he assured. "I won't compromise my own nor anyone else's safety."

"I'd hope not." Caitlin turned to face him. "My point being, I know that your wedding ceremony didn't go as you expected—"

"Listen, Caitlin, I appreciate it but I'd—rather not talk about it right now. Really, I'm fine."

"Have you even called?" Cisco chimed in.

"I did. It's too late, I—" He rubbed the nape of his neck and sighed. "I can't marry someone and—and expect them to put their life on the line because of me. The more Patty knows, the more—" Barry waved his hands around, fumbling around with the right explanation. "Dangerous it becomes." He paused, composing himself. "I'll be fine."

"Barry," she comforted. "You—"

An alert buzzed from the bed's table-side. He quickly retrieved his phone, reading over the message. "I'm sorry, guys. I—uh—" He hopped off the bed, side-stepping toward the exit. "I have to go."

"Where do you think you're going?" Caitlin questioned. "We have more tests to run."

"My day job beckons," he called out from the hallway as he sped away. He left behind a large gust of wind to rattle equipment and disperse papers inside of the lab.

Cisco folded his arms across his chest. He glanced at the door, then Caitlin, and back at the door once more.

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "What?"

"So—when do you think he'll realize he didn't take his clothes with him?"

* * *

Beyond the glass doors of CC Jitters, soft lights spilled into the dimly lit coffee shop. Glass insets, serving as windows, allowed a view of the sprawling cityscape and main street. The tiny shop was nestled around the corner among huge city skyscrapers and offices. Pedestrians rushed past it on the crowded street, though several customers entered and were instantly heralded by a blast of cold wind from the outside.

The interior of CC Jitters was warm and friendly, decorated with banners of new menu items and colorful furniture. Iris winded her way through the warm bodies to a lonesome, high tabletop. She sat down, swung her satchel around to her front, and pulled out the notebook. Iris briefly nibbled on the end of her pen as she poured over her notes and ideas. Feeling a warm presence from behind, she turned and smiled. "Tracy."

"Iris," the server slowly approached her from the right, drying out a white mug with her dish rag. "Are you ready to order?"

"Oh, uh, sure. I'll take anything you whip up, really. It's going to be a long day of writing."

"You got it."

She redirected her attention to the notebook and slowly exhaled through her nose. Being a journalist meant exploring topics that mattered; creating a bridge with words. How could she possibly could fill another person's mind with a wide array of responses and emotions if she was imprisoned within the entertainment section? She hoped to one day awaken the consciousness of Central City, to build an extension of her innermost self to others. But, alas, her true calling would not be acknowledged until she finished her assignment.

Iris placed her pen down and glanced around the shop. Tea and coffee had been served in brown mugs as servers periodically checked in with their customers at two-seated round tables. The glass-fronted counter displayed a variety of English pastries and cakes at the forefront. During the afternoon rush, CC Jitters turned into a cacophony of incessant chatter and jazz melodies. Each table had been occupied with a huddle of patrons that had unceremoniously raised their voices. Iris set her eyes on the half-filled page of her notebook, as if she were engrossed in a wandering daydream for several passing minutes. If she was going to finish this assignment, it was imperative that she found an exciting narrative to get the column started.

"Our newest latte, The Flash." Tracy placed the drink in front of Iris. It sat in a white china cup, a lightning bolt pattern of milky foam floated atop the pale, brown coffee. Iris gently wrapped her fingers around the mug, allowing the heat to spread through her fingertips. "I kinda think it's a cute idea."

Iris took a small sip and bobbed her head in agreement. Tracy leaned over her table, distractedly wiping down the surface with a battered, orange rag. "So, what's in store for us in your next column?"

"I don't know yet. I'm normally a last minute person. The ideas usually don't flow until an hour or two before deadline." She puffed out her cheeks and blew out through her mouth. "I don't know if I can wing it this time. I had something really good, but clearly that idea is out the window."

"Only when the ideas aren't flowing, huh?"

"Admittedly, I've seen better days." Iris tilted her head to the right. "And so has Jitters. Jeez, it's super busy today. I would've hated to pick up a shift right now, it looks short-staffed."

"Tell me about it. Stacy just quit yesterday."

"No," Iris whispered, head gliding back a bit in disbelief.

"Yes." Tracy shrugged her shoulders. "Up and out the exit. Between you and I, I've witnessed far more treacherous and nefarious exits than that. At least she left in private and not in front of a whole wedding congregation."

Iris sat up straighter, inching in closer to soak in this new tidbit of information. "What are you talking about?"

"Get this, I'm a plus-one for this wedding last week. I don't know, some old coworker. And—" Tracy shook her head dismissively. "Never mind, I'm probably distracting you. Sorry. I know you have a column to write, I'll just go—"

"Oh, come on," Iris groaned, patting the seat next to her. "Don't go. It's not like I have any superb ideas right now."

"Well, there's this one guy you could write about," Tracy began. She looked both ways before pulling up the seat next to Iris. She leaned in, making sure to keep her voice slightly above a whisper. "I heard some people in the row behind me call him 'The Runaway Groom'."

"That's a bit harsh. Why would they call him that?"

"Apparently he likes to dump brides right at the altar." Iris was taken aback by this statement. "Well, only because he's done it twice."

"You're kidding." Tracy made a cross symbol over the right side of chest implying that, indeed, it was not a joke. Iris spread her notebook in front of her, casually flipping to a blank page. She knew this unsavory diatribe against this man was most likely fiction, but it was a starting point. And, perhaps, better content than what was previously pitched. Eric wanted a good entertainment column? She was game.

Iris reached for her pen, scribbling down a few notes. "So, twice, you say?" Tracy nodded. Iris stopped writing and tapped the edge of the pen against her chin. "Something's not adding up. A person doesn't go through with an entire ceremony just to run out. Was he hiding from something—or—or someone?"

"Listen, from what I heard, he's performed the travesty twice. I kid you not, it's so gross. Right at the altar, he turns around and runs like hell." Tracy made a whooshing sound for effect, her left hand zigzagging through the air. "Bolts."

Iris poured over the information of gossip and scandal, hesitantly lapping up every detail. She typically wouldn't stoop to the level of neighborhood gossip, divorces, and wayward teenage antics. But there was something slightly unsettling about a man that could not commit to the day of his wedding. She pondered what secret, if any, were waiting to be disclosed. Indeed, it was heavy content and definitely not Flash-related. Perhaps she could weave in the psychological aspect of "cold feet", include a few interviews with the ex-fiancées, set up predictions on whether he would actually make it down the aisle for the third time—

"Adíos," Tracy interrupted. "This guy plowed down the aisle, almost knocking old ladies out of the way. It was like the running of the bulls at Pamplona. And you wanna know the crazy part?"

"Well?" Iris sighed, resting her head in her right hand. "I give up."

"I bet he has the next victim all lined up. He's probably twirling another body of a hopeful bride on the spit as we speak."

Iris grimaced. "That's—that's not a very good visual, Trace."

"Maybe not," she muttered.

"So—what's this guy's deal? Do you have a first and last name, maybe the ceremony program?"

"Oh, I tossed that thing. Uh, I know his name's Barry something," Tracy scrunched her nose up. "He does some work at CCPD. I know he's not a cop, though. I mean, good luck trying to score an interview, I don't know anyone on the force like that."

The flat-screen television was mounted in the corner of Jitters. Her gaze cast on the news station that was currently playing. It was a breaking news report from a recent robbery on 5th and Montgomery, with law enforcement on the scene.

"But I do."

Her right foot tapped rhythmically up and down, corners of her lips pulled upward into a small grin. Almost without a conscious thought, Iris collected her belongings. Tracy stood up, moving out of the woman's way. "Iris, where are you going?"

"I think I want to pay my dad a little visit at work."


	3. What Lurks in the Night

He distanced himself from the crowd of reporters and citizens beyond the yellow caution tape, a leather gun holster and police badge dangled at his hip. It was an unusual time of the year for a sudden heat wave in Central City and he wasn't sure if he could stand this sweltering weather. Amongst the unforgiving glare of midday, the only visible shadow was the one that pooled at Joe's feet. He looked down and frowned, smearing the pink gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe across the ground.

On any given day, Detective Joe West preferred to make use of his time.

Currently, he was running out of time and patience with his painfully-late coworker. As the allotted half hour drew near, waiting in the autumn heat became unbearable. He perspired profusely, occasionally pulling out a blue handkerchief to blot his forehead. Joe decided it was best not sit on any bench, as they had been heated under the direct sunlight, so he propped himself up against a lamppost near CC National Bank's entrance. Joe let his eyes mull over the crowd in search of any familiar faces.

"Come on now, Barry."

He hunched over his tiny cellphone screen, fingers moving at a swift pace. Sensing that he wouldn't receive a text message within the next few minutes, Joe opted for a more direct approach and dialed his missing comrade.

"It's about 2:10 and we have a fresh crime scene here. I'm only missing one thing. Can you guess what that is?" He took a deep, burdened breath. "CCPD's damned CSI. Barry, where are you?"

"Joe," Captain Singh called from afar. "I've been looking for you."

"Give me a call back, pronto. I mean it, Barry. You're late," he whispered. Joe shoved the phone into his pocket and turned around to shake the man's outstretched hand. "Captain Singh."

"This city's run amuck, it's the second bank robbery this week." He motioned with his index finger for Joe to follow him. "Talk to me, Detective. What do we got?"

"Two perps took over the bank, shot out all the cameras. The twelve hostages are accounted for and cooperative."

"Any casualties?"

"One security guard, over there." Joe's head tilted toward the black body bag several feet away and Captain Singh began to approach it. He bent down to unzip the bag and made a careful examination of the body.

"Just one?" Singh asked, zipping the bag up. He retrieved a cloth from his back pocket and wiped his hands clean.

"Yep. You can take a look at what we have so far." Joe handed over a working report, Captain Singh read it over and shuddered. "Looks like our perp made off with a bunch of handguns."

"Define 'a bunch'."

"There's at least four glock 19s fitted with a couple of extra ammunition magazines. Basically, somebody's looking to do a whole lot of bad. We suspect the Mardon Brothers are back."

"You're certain of this?" Captain Singh questioned.

Joe nodded. "Positive. The bank teller already ID'd Clyde Mardon as the main shooter."

"Then I'll get Thawne's unit kicking in doors of some Mardon associates on file. We'll weed 'em out. Tell me," He handed Joe the report back and the detective pocketed it. "Has CSI been over this yet?"

"Uh, well—" Joe hesitated, uncomfortably rubbing the back of his neck. "No."

"Joe," Captain Singh sighed. "You can't keep covering for him. Look, I know the kid's smart. But, Detective West, you even said it yourself: sometimes he's chasing flying pigs."

"I know."

"Then you should also know that if he's not here, I have no choice but to carry on this investigation without him."

"CSI! CSI! Excuse me, coming through." There was a suggestion of movement from beyond the barrier of tape and news cameras. The figure was formless and indistinct, as everyone shifted to let it through. Barry flashed his badge up in the air, weaving through the crowd of people.

"Looks like you don't have to. Right on time."

"CSI, here. Excuse me—" Barry ducked under the yellow caution tape, awkwardly tripping over his unlaced shoestring.

 _"Kid, are you okay?"_

 _"Oof, that's gotta hurt."_

Joe squeezed his eyes shut and heaved a deep sigh at the clumsy man. Barry nervously peeled himself from the ground and dusted off his pant leg; his eyes avoided their angry glares once he reached them. "Barry, you made it."

"Hey, Joe, sorry. I just got your voicemail and texts now." He shook the captain's hand. "And I am _so_ sorry I'm late, Captain Singh."

"What, were you doing a little fall shopping, Mr. Allen? Perhaps you forgot to set your alarm clock this morning?" Barry opened his mouth to speak but was immediately interrupted. "Before you answer, I should remind you that the excuse you gave me last time was car trouble. And do you want to know _why_ that one excuse was particularly memorable?"

Barry lowered his head, idly fumbling with his fingers. "Because I do not own a car."

"Exactly." Singh folded his arms across his chest. "So what is it this time, Mr. Allen?"

"He was running an errand for me," Joe interjected. Both Barry and Captain Singh redirected their attention to Joe. "Barry, did you get me what I asked for?"

Barry's eyes squinted in confusion. "What?" he mouthed.

"The _thing_. You know," Joe cleared his throat. "That thing for the investigation."

"Oh!" Barry swiftly patted down his pockets. "Right. Yeah. Yeah, I did. I have it right here, uh, well somewhere. If I can just find it—in my pocket—here—"

"Find it later. Barry, I want you to start processing the evidence," Singh muttered, walking away from the two men. "If you'll excuse me, CCPD still has a killer on the loose which means I need get back to the precinct. Get back to work, gentlemen."

Once Singh was out of earshot, Barry turned to his colleague. "Joe, I can't express enough how sorry I am. Thank you for covering for me."

"You should be sorry. I just don't get it, Barry." Joe defeatedly threw up his hands. "At some point, you have to look in the mirror and say: who is this guy and what is he proud of? When does it end?"

"It won't happen again, I promise." Barry shook his head. "I plan on keeping my promises this time."

"Good. Because if you keep on lying like that, you're liable to get struck by lightning again," Joe warned. "It's a universal thing. You put stuff out there—"

"It always comes back," Barry finished.

"That's my boy," Joe grinned, ruffling the young man's hair. "Now get to work."

"So, what are we looking at?" Barry inquired, pulling out a pair of gloves from his back pocket. "Just our typical amateur bank robbery, right?"

"Not amateurs, pros. The teller ID'd Clyde Mardon as one of the shooters, we can only presume who he was with."

"What? Oh, jeez, the Mardon brothers are back," Barry groaned. "Didn't we already put those low-lives in prison?"

"Yep, on a 10 to 20 stretch. But, you know, in Central City's warped mess of crime this actually comes to two years time served."

"Gross," he mumbled, stretching the latex gloves over his right hand and lastly the left.

"Tell me about it. Singh's got Thawne working on all the Mardon associates, so we'll hear updates soon."

"Thawne?" Barry asked. "Who's that?"

They made their way to the body bag and knelt down to examine the corpse before Barry moved on to the leftover evidence of tire tracks and rubber.

"Don't step in that," Joe instructed, directing Barry away from the smudged feces in the street. "I hate when people don't pick up after their dogs."

He took a magnifying glass from his pocket and began a careful examination of the spot where the Mardons were believed to have taken off. Barry made a great detailed show of his work. He studied a piece of blown-up tire rubber underneath the magnifying lens. Joe remained knelt by his side, busying himself with a tape measure.

"Joe," Barry mumbled absentmindedly.

"Hmm?"

"You said Thawne is on the case, too. Who is that?"

"Oh, yeah. Eddie Thawne. He's a transfer from Keystone, started a few days ago." Joe retracted the tape measure and placed it beside Barry. "Detective Pretty Boy."

"Sounds pretty." Barry wrinkled his nose. "Why'd they need a transfer to handle this?"

Joe hesitated to respond. He figured that it would be best to break the news with tact, empathy, and even a little discretion. He knew that he had enough tenure in detective work and policing when it came to delivering difficult news. But even so, he felt grief for the unaware forensic scientist.

"Hey." Barry peered up at him. "What is it?"

"Well, Eddie Thawne," he sighed. "He's my new partner."

"I—I thought Patty was your partner?" Barry stammered, dropping the tools in his hand. "A few days ago? Wait. How come—how come no one told me? When did this—"

"She transferred out, he transferred in. I'm sorry." Joe placed a comforting hand on Barry's shoulder. "You had to know she wouldn't have stayed, Bar. I mean, it would've been too much."

"I know." Joe stared at Barry, but the CSI refused to meet his gaze. "So the getaway car is a Mustang Shelby GT-500," Barry began. He cocked his head toward the tire tracks and rubber. "Shelby's have a super-wide rear tire specific to that model. These tracks are nearly identical to that description. But, there's something else I discovered. I just need to borrow a pen." Joe retrieved a blue ink pen from his coat pocket and handed it to Barry. "Thanks."

Barry dug the tip of the pen in the feces next to the tire tracks and held it up in the light for further examination. "Fecal excrement. Same kind I found under the groove of this tire. I'm positive it's a big animal, but not necessarily a dog."

"I got that pen for Christmas," Joe whispered.

Barry quickly wiped it down. "Sorry."

"On second thought," Joe said, holding up a hand to block himself from the ruined pen. "I don't want that thing back. Keep it."

Barry shrugged his shoulders. "I need to do some more testing in the lab. So I'll just bag all of this up and, fingers crossed, we'll get some results in soon."

"Good work. I'm gonna call Singh real quick and let him know what we've found," Joe said, beginning to stand up from his knelt position. Barry started the process of labeling and bagging evidence as Joe walked away.

Joe dialed Singh, raising the phone up to his left ear. "Captain Singh, it's Joe West. I'd say everything looks good, Barry's found some stuff he's gonna take to the lab. We should be out of here by 2:45, I—"

" _Dad_?" a voice called out.

His face moved rather slowly, as if he were taking in the surroundings and the sound of her voice. Joe turned around, smile widening at the sight of his daughter behind him. "I'll give you a call back." He ended the call, arms stretched out for her to run in.

"Iris, my favorite reporter and baby girl, get in here."

"Dad," she laughed, snuggled into the embrace. "You're the only person I know that gives the best hugs."

His arms squeezed a smidge tighter and Iris breathed more slowly, calmly. Her body melted into her dad's as every strained muscle lost its tension to warmth and happiness. Joe smoothed down his daughter's hair as they removed themselves from the hug. "Iris, what are you doing here?"

She paused, thoughts frazzled as to what to say next. What could she possibly say to her father? She's there to track down his coworker and maybe score an interview about some gossip she heard? That definitely seemed like a valid reason for a visit.

Iris patted her dad's arm fondly. "Relax, it's just work," she explained. "I just got a tip on an article I'm writing. I thought maybe I'd get a few ideas. You know, if that's okay."

"Putting the old man in your column?" he replied, proudly adjusting his suspender straps. "Well, how could I say no?"

"Only if you have good intel for me," she laughed. "But, hey, um—if you're not too busy maybe we could talk it over lunch? I'm kind of starving."

"Oh yeah, sure, just let me wrap things up." Joe glanced back at Barry and waved. "Hey, Barry, I'm headed out for a late lunch. Are you good here?" Several feet away, Barry looked up as he sealed a plastic bag, giving Joe a quick thumbs up.

Jackpot.

" _Barry_?" Iris's head shot up as she directed her attention to the man in the distance, the sudden movement caused her to accidentally drop her phone in the process. She looked down, reaching for her phone. "Oh, shoot."

Joe picked up the befallen object. He handed it to her and Iris dusted off her phone screen, inspecting it for any cracks. "Iris, honey, you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I just—" She thought for a moment, before regaining her composure. "Actually, Dad, I need to take care of something really quick and then we can go. Give me a few minutes?"

"Alright, uh, well I'll be right here," Joe replied, eyebrow quirked as Iris walked away.

"Cool."

This was it. This was Barry, the Barry.

Iris stared him up and down, surveying the unsuspecting subject before she went in for the kill. The man's appearance was torn between the traces of mid-twenties and boyhood. He was fairly clean shaven and made quick, calculated movements as he neatly packed containers and clear plastic bags into a silver case. She figured he couldn't be much over twenty-five. He had a nerdy appearance about him—almost befuddling her as to how such a doe-eyed and uncoordinated outfit-wearing man could create such heinous acts of altar abandonment.

She walked over to him with an effortless, sleek saunter. The clicking of her heels adding a slight rhythm to her footsteps. Her eyes scanned the scene with determination as he packed up the remainder of his belongings. Iris suddenly stopped and appeared before him, long black hair billowed around her shoulders and her head was held high. His gaze averted from the blue container on the ground and traveled up to her face. When her eyes met his, she smiled.

"Hi."

"Hi," she replied, holding out her hand.

Barry reached for it but his eyes widened and he quickly pulled away. "I'm sorry. I'd shake your hand, but—" Iris peeked down at his dirtied gloves and slowly retracted her hand. "I just realized I'm kind of a mess right now. It's—uh—well this is animal poop."

"Good call. Don't worry about it," she assured with a laugh, letting the moment falter into brief silence before speaking again. "By the way, I'm Iris West."

"Bartholomew—well, no, uh—Barry. I go by Barry—Barry Allen," he introduced. Barry's eyebrows scrunched together, he pointed his thumb back. "West, you said. By any chance, are you related to—?"

"I'm his daughter."

"Ah. Well, for the record, I think Joe's a really great guy. You're lucky to have him as a dad." He smiled at Joe, who was currently preoccupied with an incoming phone call. Barry awkwardly looked back at Iris, thinking up a topic as he deemed himself quite a terrible conversationalist. "So, you must be on the verge of breaking some huge story, huh?"

It was a bit too early in the game for her to be thrown off guard by his odd, yet revealing, question. Iris blinked rapidly, words coming out as stammers as she tried to find an appropriate response. "Excuse me?"

"Sorry. It's this weird CSI thing I do," he backtracked, pointing to her shirt. "I noticed your CCPN badge. I figured you were either an employee or, you know, sometimes someone with a notebook and badge ends up being a big city reporter."

"Oh! Right." She briefly looked at her badge. "Yeah, I'm actually here working on an article for my column."

He straightened up a bit, slightly relieved at this information. "Good news is that I'm sure there's plenty of things for you to write about. As you can see," he waved his hand around to showcase the scene before them. "Exhibit A, we had a huge robbery here."

"As crazy as this sounds," Iris began. "I'm not here for the robbery. I actually wanted to get an in-depth look into the people working at CCPD. I hoped maybe you could spare some time to give an interview or two."

Iris watched him stand up, and lock the evidence case in his hands. Barry pondered over her offer, and when he appeared uneasy, she quickly added, "About your CSI work, of course. Not just—you."

But mostly him and his questionable love life. She needn't go over the minor details, yet.

"I'm gonna be honest, Iris. I'm not really that good at giving interviews," he admitted. "Besides, my work probably won't seem that cool on paper compared to any of the stuff that Joe does. CSI, it's a lot of forensic science, mathematic formulas, and lab testing."

"So basically science fiction stuff?" she quipped.

"Yeah," Barry laughed. "Pretty much."

"Well, I'll tell you this, Barry Allen." She dug around in the satchel and retrieved a scrap of paper and pen, scribbling information down. "I think we definitely have a story here. So if you ever want to talk about that science fiction work you do, give me call."

In her midst of finite disappointment throughout her career, she would not lose her infinite hope. This piece could open up unimaginable doors, she just needed one chance.

Barry Allen would call for an interview and when he did, Iris West would make sure that she picked up.

* * *

The sun sank lower in the sky, a mixture of pink and yellow daylight gradually drained away, exposing the dark of night. Evening had finally wrapped around Central City, filling the horizon with city light and specks of faint stars. Despite the exciting bustle during daytime, he always preferred the night.

It was when the scorching heat beaming down from midday would surrender to the onslaught of cool breezes that he would sit outside, head comfortably tilted back, and gaze the sky. On much warmer nights, he'd study constellations or keep track of the lunar phases with the background sound of crickets hidden within the long grass.

Tonight, his legs dangled off the parapet edge of Jitters' flat rooftop. His figure silhouetted against the stars and city lights.

"I'm going to CSI school in Midway City, so that means moving in three days. I've always wanted to do this my whole life," she explained. "CCPD will be fine without me."

"I heard." He drew in a labored breath. "Patty, I'm so sorry."

He could hear her breathing into the phone, yet the thickened tension and silence remained.

"Are you there?" he finally asked.

"You know, you kept telling me there was stuff you couldn't share with me and, truthfully, I've been going a little crazy trying to figure out what that stuff is." She paused, allowing time for her words to sink in. "So I went through some old cases. Just on a hunch. All of them involved The Flash saving the day with specific details that even you couldn't have possibly even known."

"That's weird," Barry insisted.

"I know you're The Flash, Barry."

He heaved a sigh. "Patty, come on, don't do this."

"I'm a detective and I should have known, Barry. I understand why you didn't want to tell me or why you've been distant. But tell me the truth, just be honest with me one last time," Patty requested. "Admit to me you're The Flash, and I'll stay."

The lingering silence was intolerable for him; in that brief void of sound, the emptiness of their conversation was bare. What used to be playful banter regarding sports teams and movie quotes were now gone. Silence stretched thinner between them, until his temptation to rupture it was irresistible.

"I can't do that," Barry confessed quietly. "Because I'm not him."

As he waited for her reaction, the stillness hung desperately in the air. He expected her to dissolve into tears, to scream at him, pretend the topic was never brought up; but Patty Spivot did none of those things. Instead, she simply replied, "You know, it's really too bad, Barry. It would have been nice to stay. To fight crime during the day and be with you at night."

"Patty—"

"Take care, Barry."

The darkness that now shrouded the rooftop was thick and heavy, interlaced with sorrow and grief for what could have been—and what he knew was right for the both of them. In an overwhelming rush of emotions, he discovered there was nothing left but loneliness.

Dr. Wells was right, he couldn't have both worlds. People were a distraction and with the Reverse-Flash still around, he couldn't risk being distracted or vulnerable.

Hands dug deep in his pockets, he fumbled around, eyebrows furrowing together as he pulled out a thin piece of paper. Barry read over the contact information before crumpling it back up and shoving it in his pocket.

Barry slowly stood up, attempting to balance without falling over the edge of the roof. He turned his back toward the city; nothing behind him but flashes of lightning as he ran.

And dead silence.

* * *

 _And in Central City, where he is currently employed as an assistant crime-scene investigator for CCPD, one can only remain aghast that: Bartholomew Allen, locally known as Barry, is the Runaway Groom. What is unusual about Mr. Allen is that he likes to dress his women up as brides before he devours them. He has already disemboweled two in a row, leaving them frantic at the altar._

 **[Delete] [Delete] [Delete]**

 _Remain aghast that: Bartholomew Allen, locally known as Barry, does not call back. Which really sucks because I need my job. Dude._

 **[Delete] [Delete] [Delete]**

 _That: Bartholomew Allen, locally known as Barry, is...is..going to the the death of Iris West's article if he doesn't just_

 **[Select All] [Delete]**

Iris closed out of the word document and sighed, resting her head in her hand. She stared at the blank computer screen, waiting for the idea to come to her. Inside her mind, the words were laced together, and it wouldn't come into fruition until the real intent of her piece became acknowledged. She needed to understand the true nature of her subject. A connection needed to be built between her editor, Barry, and her readers.

If she dared to pitch this unfinished idea, Eric Larkin would either be transported happily into the world of wedding scandal or he'd place it abruptly back on the rack and fire her. She was simply out of time and ideas.

Iris pushed her laptop aside and dipped out of her bed, deciding to head into the kitchen for some water.

She switched on the lights of the living room. It was fairly cozy, adorned in beige tapestry pieces that hung on her wall; some clunky furniture and other trinkets mixed in, yet all the more pleasing and apparent of her style. It was a small apartment space, not too empty, and seemingly to belonging to a single, human life. Iris maintained a fairly moderate level of cleanliness, despite the few scattered newspapers and beat up notebooks that piled on her end-table.

Beyond the windows of the ivory-paneled apartment, dim city lights glowed through a pair of fluttering, brown curtains. Iris parted the taffeta fabric with her hands, allowing moonlight to spill into the room. An incredible view of the skyline appeared before her without a single cloud to ruin the starry night sky. Red taillights from faraway traffic offset the faint orange glow of sodium-vapor streetlamps. Cup of water in hand, Iris took a sip.

Vehicles sped down the street, creating threads of headlights, and she nearly dropped her cup when she seen it.

A vibrant shock of red and yellow zipped through the streets, breaking through the darkness and cleaving away at rapid speeds. If only, for the briefest of moments, before it was gone.

The corners of her lips lifted up into a smile, one so genuinely sweet. Iris let out a relaxed sigh and headed back to bed.

Perhaps even The Flash, _too_ , grew restless at night.

* * *

"Good evening, Dr. Wells."

"Good evening, Gideon. Please, bring up my log. It's a new entry."

Harrison paced around, hands clasped behind his back. "It has now been 310 days since the lightning struck our subject. Initially, I assumed his attachment to people would be a distraction. Something that would slow down his progress."

Harrison stopped, idly stroking his chin. "I have convinced him of such, so our subject remains compliant in following the allotted timetable. Patricia is no longer involved, unfortunately a moment that has previously affected our timeline. Certainly, with the relationship currently defunct we are right on schedule. Now that this obstacle surpassed us, I realize the opposite is true. Barry Allen's attachment to people, especially those that deeply he cares about, is the key to getting him up to speed. Compassion equates to speed. An interesting theory but one that has proven me otherwise. However, I have good news."

Gideon pulled up a projection of the 2024 report. Harrison walked over, scanning through the article byline until his eyes settled on the author's name. What once appeared as singular had now changed into a hyphenated surname.

"The future still remains intact."


End file.
